Unreality
by Rionne
Summary: [Complete vignette] He's not asking why anymore, that was yesterday.


**Title:** Unreality  
**Author: **Rionne  
**Fandom: **QAF  
**Pairing:** B/M  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Status:** Complete  
**Category: **Hurt/Comfort  
**Disclaimers:** Not mine. Just playing in Cowlip's sandbox.  
**Spoilers:** Through the end of Season 4.  
**Summary:** Michael can shut out everyone but Brian.  
**Warnings: **Inexplicit character death. Subsequently, it's kind of a downer.

**Special Note :** This one is for infofadingslowly, who asked for a fic where Brian h/c's Mikey after a death. I don't write very good death fics, but here goes. :) Hope you like.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Brian isn't thinking about much as he parks his Stingray, taking up two parking spaces in his haste, one of them handicap, the other a fire lane, but just like with everything else, he doesn't care. He's trying not to think at all, trying not to care at all, and he's doing a commendable job, because he doesn't even lock the car that cost him thirty grand as he bounds up snow crusted steps in three's, his waning energy bolstered only by the vast amounts of putrid funeral home coffee he's consumed. Then he realizes that that was five days ago, that he's running on nothing but adrenaline, and that days and nights and mornings have meshed together until the difference is as dim and muddled as the inferior lighting of the apartment stairwell.

He doesn't even know how long he's stood, pounding on splintered wood until his fists are red and tingly, yelling out menacing pleas and empty threats until his voice is cracked and dry.

Even as he gives up and turns the key in the door, he feels the difference, smells it, tastes it. It seeps from under the crack in the door like the reaching tendrils of a poisonous gas, clings to everything, to him now, and he wonders when his imagination got so vivid, when everything else--when reality--is as dull and muted as old newsprint. He doesn't want to force to himself in, doesn't want to betray the privacy of his closest friend, but he fears for what he hasn't seen, for what is hidden and for what he might find.

The door hinges release a series of protesting squeaks like they never have before, and maybe it's because he's kicked it in with all his might, or maybe it's because the person who would fix it is no longer able, but somehow the sound is offensive in the loud silence, somehow it punctuates the darkness and intensifies the aura of foreboding, and he wonders what it does to Mikey, if it makes him feels the same, this one tiny sound amidst a blaring cacophony. The apartment is dark, and cold, and Mikey doesn't like the cold, or the dark. He likes things warm and luminescent and cheerful, a mimicry of himself, but now a bitter parody.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, caught between dread and loyalty. He can handle his own grief those rare times he has it, but he's never learned how to handle Mikey's.

He looks down, and beside the paint chipped door are Michael's shoes, thrown haphazardly against the threshold, still covered in mud from the graveyard, and if he looks closer he can see little crescents of dried earth littered about the hideous carpet, leading a path to where he'll eventually go. There's a picture, too, a pair of smiling faces, one bronzed and sculpted, the other all soft lines and sincerity, but now both lie broken and smashed, just beyond the black heap that must be Michael's suit, the one he wore to the service, the one Brian helped him buy, because Mikey knows nothing about such things. Then there's the bottles, everywhere, and some have been thrown against the wall, leaving dingy splotches of muddy amber and permanent memories. The phone has been ripped from the wall, tossed carelessly to the floor, the red battery light blinking the warning of it's slow death. The faucet is trickling in the kitchen sink, perishable food lies untouched on the counter, and he can just see the crinkled petal of a white lily sticking out of the garbage disposal, wilted and curled in upon itself.

The trail of destruction continues, like the sordid relics of a deserted battlefield, and Brian treads carefully across shards of ceramic, some of them the cheap and gaudy figurines from QVC that Deb gave him last Christmas, and it's obvious Michael has found an indirect way to funnel his anger towards his mother. A lifeless and painted face crunches beneath his heel, and Brian thinks he doesn't blame him, because Deb shouldn't have said what she did at the funeral, shouldn't have pushed Michael so hard, like she always has. He forces himself to keep moving forward, steps over scattered books, most left open and face down--as if he needed another bad sign, because Michael always takes care of his books.

The floor in front of the couch is snowed with notebook papers, marred by a distinctive scrawl, and Brian knows with a lurch in his gut that these are Ben's papers, and that the small leather book is his diary, most likely containing the chronicle of his short life, perhaps his last message to Michael. He looks up, and the screen of the Sony Vega is a color it should not be, and he can't help but cringe at the thoughtless destruction of expensive electronics.

The door to Michael's bedroom, what used to be their bedroom, is open, of course, because he _knows _Brian, knows that Brian would just bang it down, too. He's the only one who won't go away, the only one who won't give up, and Michael hates it as much as he treasures it, but he is immediately ashamed, because the pain is unbearable when he thinks of Brian ever going away for good, like_ he_ did.

If the rest of the apartment resembled a trailer park after a hurricane, the bedroom is worse, but only because of the unmoving figure on the bed, facing the window. Brian makes his way carefully to the side of the sunken mattress, towards the curled body of his friend. His steps slow, his breathe slows, everything slows, and only Michael eye's can speed things up again, back to the way things should be, must be.

He hasn't shaved, and Brian can feel Michael's shoulder blades more than he should through the thin cotton of his white tee, can feel the trembling as he places a hand on his back and rubs small soothing circles across tired and fragile flesh. Michael's eyes are red and puffy and closed, but he's not asleep. His hands are lying stretched out and open before him, as if in quiet surrender, and Brian tries not to yell when he sees the red lines of dried blood on his knuckles, sees the cuts on the smooth surface of his palms, and they almost, almost, mar his skin as much as the slick band of fourteen carat gold. He tries not to feel a tightening in his chest, because Michael is fingering the cold metallic band, and it's still wrapped his middle finger, still wrapped around everything, complicating everything.

Michael's breathing is heavy and his lips are red from crying, tear streaks just visible in the soft glow of evening light. Brian takes Michael's hand in his own, some of the cuts start to bleed again, and he's not surprised when he gets no response, so with his other hand he closes Michael's cold fingertips around his own, chilling his own skin, but they'll warm up soon. He will not speak first, it's the least he can do, because Michael did it for him so long ago, when things were happier and simpler, when Jack and playground bullies and getting caught with Vic's porn were their only looming worries. He knows Michael needs his touch, his presence, and in the back of his mind he wonders how long it's been since he's allowed any one to touch him like this, so he sweeps inky tendrils from Michael's forehead and strokes his thumb softly above the slope of a dark brow.

His knees are going numb from kneeling on the floor, and so is his arm, but Michael hasn't spoken yet. Brian waits, something everyone thinks he's incapable of, but then everyone's an asshole, and he's always waited for Mikey. After school, after tricks, after boyfriends; he's always waited.

Michael's voice is like blunt nails on sandpaper, rasping and dull.

"I told you not to come."

"I know."

"I just want to be alone."

"No you don't."

Michael's eyes snap open then, bloodshot and cold, but Brian stares back solidly, and if he could look through Michael's eyes and into his own, he would see the pain reflected. What is Michael's, becomes his.

Words pass between them without voice, and it starts slowly, a subtle shaking, a trembling lip. It's all Brian needs, and he doesn't even take off his clothes as he slides in the bed, under the heavy patch quilt, gathering Michael into his arms like the precious possession he is and murmuring incomprehensible strings of affectionate reassurings he often proclaims he's not capable of. It's like a bad dream; his voice doesn't sound like his own, and this broken man in his arms could not possibly be Michael. But it is, and they are, so Brian holds him tightly, shielding him from things he's never realized he couldn't. Soon the shoulder of his silk shirt is soaked and wrinkled, sponging up Michael's tears as thoroughly as his heart sponges up Michael's anguish. What is Michael's, become his, and Michael has never stopped sobbing, his body wracking as he says it over and over. He's not asking why anymore, that was yesterday. Today it's something that rips across the surface of Brian's heart even more.

"Don't leave me, Brian. Please. _Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me._"

It's the haunting chant that Brian falls asleep to.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Brian wakes, Michael is gone, and so is the sun. But that feeling is still there, that oppressiveness, and the bed is cold without Michael, and he realizes with staggering clarity that he's uncomfortable in Michael's bed for the first time, this bed he shared with another man, the dead man who's caused all this. It's irrational to feel such anger towards a dead man, but Brian Kinney is many things and irrational is one of them.

He turns to see whether it is morning or night, or even somewhere in between, but Michael's been redecorating, and the cube shaped radio and clock in one has been hurled across the room and into the corner, cushioned by a floor made of strewn jeans and flannel shirts.

Brian rubs at grainy eyes, and then he hears it, a terrible hacking coming from outside the bedroom and to the right--the bathroom. It's not hard to pull himself out of bed, not when he sees Michael, on the floor, puking out everything but his lungs into the toilet bowl, his hands gripping the base as if his very life depends on it.

The floor is dirty and sticky but Brian sits on it anyway, crawling to Michael's side. He doesn't touch him, but watches in concern as Michael retches, his stomach heaving, until he finally pulls back from the basin and leans against the wall, panting, never letting go of stark porcelain. He's sweating, and shaking, and Brian knows that cannot be good, because the apartment is surely below fifty degrees, and his own butt is already cold from sitting on the unforgiving tile.

"Are you sick?"

Michael's laugh is almost mirthless as he swipes the back of his hand over his swollen lips.

"Nah. I just make it a habit to hug the john at three am every morning."

Brian places the back of an unsteady hand across Michael's forehead and the corners of his mouth turn up, equally glad that Michael's wit and normal body temperature are still in their proper places, but for how long he doesn't know nor want to think about.

He's on one side of the toilet, Michael's on the other, and it's too far away, so he crawls across the hideous yellow tile, hair and God knows what catching between his fingers and sticking to his palms, but it doesn't matter because he's tucking Michael's shivering form under his arm, picking up an icy hand to lie loosely in his own. Michael squeezes, and Brian presses kisses to his salty temple.

Michael's breathing quickens, like he's about to cry, and sure enough, his voice becomes strained and tight and Brian feels warm droplets rain down on his hand, down the side of his jaw where their faces are touching.

"I miss..." a sob, and Michael's childlike voice is almost unrecognizable. "I miss the way he called me baby." Brian has to strain to hear him, but it's not because Michael is talking softly, so softly. "Baby. And the way he put his arm around me when we'd go in a crowded room...I felt so safe. So warm." Michael is clutching at delicate silk, wrapping around his one constant in life like a strangling vine, and he smells like alcohol and cigarette smoke and mouthwash and whatever he ate last, but to Brian, it's the sweetest thing in the world, and the most devastating, all at the same horrible time. Michael is keening in his ear now, and his clammy hand grips his bicep painfully, but Brian doesn't feel it, doesn't hear it, because he's numb.

"Every night...before we went to sleep...he would kiss the back of my neck, and then he'd tell me he loved me...and--" Michael's voice sputters and dies, and he can't talk anymore, and Brian doesn't want to hear anymore, because the twinge of jealously isn't what he wants to feel right now. He barely even notices when Michael jerks away abruptly, reaching the toilet just in time as dry heaves render nothing but acrid bile and pulled stomach muscles.

Brian gently places his hand on the nape of Michael's damp neck, a cornerstone, a shaky bridge across the gap of reality and dream, because Brian's always there, waiting patiently, waiting not-so-patiently, watching painfully, not speaking, always waiting. When Michael's done, he's limp and cold, but Brian is there to support him, always, scooting backwards to lean against the wall and pulling Michael with him. The whole time, this whole time, the gold band is always there, staring at him, mocking him cruelly, but it looks better, not against the white porcelain. Michael curls against him, seeking everything Brian has to offer, and Brian gives it, as he always has.

"Talk to me."

Brian's fingers are carding through matted hair, carefully avoiding the knots, and if Michael could feel, he knows it would feel good, so good, like home.

"About what?" Michael wonders why Brian's voice sounds so odd, why it took him so long to answer, but everything is mired in thick mud, slow and mottled, like he's underneath the ripples of flowing water.

"Anything. Just talk to me."

Brian exhales carefully. "Do you remember that time, during spring break, when we attempted to make margaritas in Deb's kitchen?"

Michael laughs, and Brian can't think of anything that has ever sounded so good, can't think of the last time he's heard the sound, but it's been awhile, long before Ben went in the hospital, long before Michael quit looking at him with that flare in his eyes.

"I added the whole bottle of tequila." They can't see one another, because Michael's head is tucked under Brian's chin, but they can feel each other's smiles and erupt in quiet laughter, and it feels good, so good, and for three seconds, there is nothing else in the world but them. Then reality crashes down, and Michael threads his fingers slowly through Brian's right hand, and Brian's hand has never stopped stroking the back of Michael's neck, that place he knows Michael loves to be touched.

"Do you ever...I mean..." very quietly now, "Do you miss him?"

Justin's been gone for two years, Hollywood and Rage and whimsical ambitions ensnaring his fleeting youth much like Brian had so many years ago.

"Yeah. I do." He swallows hard, so hard he swears it echoes, and the gentle rise and fall of Michael's chest reminds him to breathe, reminds him that this is real, because nothing feels real, and he's afraid it never will again. And it's almost like Michael is holding him now, comforting him now, but it's wrong, all wrong, because Brian needs to tell him that he wanted Justin to go, told him to go.

But he can't, because Michael turned him away.

He turned him away that night two years ago, and went back to Ben, back to what Brian could never give him, and Michael still thinks that Brian never saw his tears in the dim light of Babylon's entrance, but he did.

He's stroking the tops of Brian's knuckles now, down the vein, across where cowry shells use lie, and he's quit shivering, enveloped in a familiar warmth that's held him since he was fourteen.

"Brian?"

"Yes, Mikey?"

"It...it always comes back to this, doesn't it? You and me."

"Yeah."

A pause.

"I just want you to know that I need time."

Brian doesn't have to ask time for what, time for who; he knows, just like Michael knows what he's going to say and what he won't say, so he only embraces the silence and tightens his arms, pulling Michael closer, so much closer, because this time, he's not going to let go, and he's not going to be afraid.

--end.


End file.
